


Jim's Six Times at Baker Street: 3

by debunker



Series: Such a pity you're not home, Sherlock... But I'll wait. [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Are you wearing any pants? No..., Bathtubs, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, Kink implied, Kissing, M/M, Moriarty's enjoying his evening at Baker St, Moriarty's taking a bath, Sheriarty - Freeform, TAB-inspired, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically my brain exploded after TAB and I'm still collecting its tiny bits and sporting a hole almost rivaling that of Moriarty's.<br/>So Sherlock says Moriarty has got acquainted himself with his place and it took him 6 times to do so.<br/>Sounds like a prompt, doesn't it?<br/>This is the third time and Moriarty is back to Sherlock's place apparently. There are so many corners of 221B Baker St. to enjoy, not only Sherlock's bedroom. For example, his bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim's Six Times at Baker Street: 3

Sherlock sees some strange greenish light coming through the door of the bathroom, entering the room, casting its blurred ray beside the bed. He hears a muffled splash of water and then a light chink. He feels the warmth behind the door, the vapor filling the room and something dangerous waiting inside it. Dangerous. And it’s waiting. For him. How can he not enter then if it’s waiting.

So he does. He pulls the door handle stiffening a little in his back but ready to confront what or more precisely who is in his bathroom. He opens the door bracing himself, curios somehow. First he sees the side of the bathtub with a bare foot resting against it. He opens the door a little more only to let his eyes rest on the leg the foot belongs to. Bare as well, wet, dark hair clinging to the hot, pinkish skin. Toned calves, athletic knees, nicely shaped thighs… He pauses and flings the door completely open. Moriarty.

“Hello”, Moriarty grins at him and raises a glass of dark red wine he’s holding in his left hand. “Come in Sherlock, do come in. And please, do close the door, I like to keep it hot.”

Sherlock flushes in a somewhat shy realization that he’s staring at Moriarty’s exposed cock. Long and quite thick, it’s displayed under the water and startles a little when Sherlock enters. Like a water snake. Sherlock slaps himself in his mind to stop this obscene staring.

“Like what you see, Sherlock?”, he cocks his head to the side, moving his hand with the glass, waving it invitingly. “There’s enough room for two, wanna join me”. Moriarty catches his eyes and opens his legs a little wider.

“Get out of my bathroom”, Sherlock inhales calming himself down, shifting his gaze to look at the wall. He grabs a bath towel from the hook and throws it to Moriarty.

Moriarty catches it, waits a second and then with a sharp movement throws it back to Sherlock. Sherlock catches it too and tosses it angrily to the floor and comes closer to the bathtub.

“Glad to see you’ve made up your mind, lovely. But you have to take your clothes off, otherwise your nice outfit will get damp.” Moriarty takes a sip of wine and makes it linger in his mouth, appreciating the taste.

“Get out of here”.

“Or you will do what? Try to make me leave? But then you’ll have to touch me. I think you’re hardly experienced enough in maneuvering naked bodies, Sherlock.” Moriarty narrows his eyes a little and sizes up Sherlock. “But it’s ok. I could teach you if you want.” He shifts his hips meaningfully making Sherlock almost bite his lower lip.

“I’m maneuvering enough naked dead bodies in the morgue already. Yours would be of no difference.” Sherlock is still trying to keep his cool.

“Naked? Yes. But dead? No, Sherlock. Don’t you feel it?” Moriarty reaches out abruptly and catches Sherlock’s hand with his own wet and hot and pulls him closer, dangerously close to his side. “You should get closer to check.” Sherlock is trying to free himself but Moriarty’s fanatically strong and his eyes are flicking with a devilish fire. His black hair are damp and thrown backwards, his cheeks are rosy, his mouth is red with wine, he is a shade tiddly, hot with liquor and water.

“You. Are. Dead.” Sherlock is concentrating on the reality, Moriarty’s dead body on the rooftop, blood and brain pieces all splashed around, leaving Sherlock no way out but down from there on the road to meet his own death.

“Oh, Sherlock, killing myself in front of you to compromise you was so much fun that I would do this again just to enjoy the show.” Moriarty closes his eyes in a dreamy manner and moves his head as if imagining the scene. His skin is glossy and hot, the muscles of his chest move as he breaths. Sherlock sees him so close, feels the warm smell of his body, his own skin is getting moister with water vapor going up from the bathtub.

“Didn’t you like it?” Moriarty opens his eyes and they are completely black, two enormous enthusiastic wells swallowing Sherlock. “Blood.” Moriarty spills the wine into the water and they both watch the stain expanding, dissolving slowly, leaving pinkish traces over Moriarty’s stomach which Sherlock can’t stop looking at. This man, this man… Naked in his bathtub.

“Blood.” Moriarty’s whisper is entrancing, his lips are so close, so full of blood, hot, so close… Sherlock’s head is spinning a little, he feels his knees are getting weak, he props his legs up the bathtub, still held by Moirarty’s fingers.

He startles shrilly as Moriarty breaks the glass against the bathtub and brings the murderous chip close to their hands, almost touching his own skin with its point. Sherlock shivers and tries to shift himself back looking in terror as Moriarty pushes it into the skin making it tighten under.

“I can already see the newspaper headlines: Sherlock Holmes’s lover found drunk and dead in his bathtub.”

“We are not lovers.” Sherlock is stretching all his body to get as far from the chip in Moriarty’s hand as he can.

“Well, we still have time, my love. We could add some hard touch just to spice it up a little.” Moriarty’s almost talking to himself. “Bit of kink, you know.”

“What are you going to do? Leave a collar in my underwear drawer? Put a whip on the coat hook?”

“Oh, Sherlock. Little do you know about love play. It’s not about whips and collars, maybe Miss Adler has inflamed your mind with it, but it’s not, it’s all theatre and these are just props. The real domination”, Moriarty’s voice gets lower, entering Sherlock’s very inside, “the real domination is about possessing. Possessing another person’s mind.” Moriarty moves his mouth slowly pronouncing that and Sherlock somehow knows what he is imagining in this moment and he feels the smallest prick of dirty excitement at the bottom of his tail bone. “You can put one in chains, lock him up in the most distant room but if he possesses your mind he will still dominate your fantasies.” The fire in Moriarty’s eyes is almost real. It is burning the dark forest Sherlock has surrounded his secret with bringing it to light.

“But speaking about scandal, some blood play does not hurt. Well, maybe just a little.”

Moriarty is moving the glass slowly against his skin on the wrist scraping it a little. Sherlock’s watching it as a reddish “S” is arising. He watches its swelling edges with red micro droplets coming to surface. Moriarty watches it, entranced and clearly pleased. Slowly, moving like as if he were emerged in glue he sticks out his tongue and licks the mark passing over the damaged skin. Sherlock swallows hard, he almost knows how it feels, he perceives it with acute distinction.

Moriarty shifts his mouth and his hand putting it over Sherlock’s neck dragging him close and licks his mouth, pushing his tongue between Sherlock’s lips who obeys in a mixed state of surprise and sadistic arousal. He feels the slightest metallic note in Moriarty’s mouth. His head is spinning, he moves his arms to stable himself, not knowing whether to push Moriarty back or to bring him closer. The chip of glass in Moriarty’s hand flicks over Sherlock’s neck and he hisses at the contact of the cut with heavy air.

Moriarty breaks the kiss and pulls an upset face.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He places his hot mouth on the cut and sucks at it lightly, soothing the skin. It sends Sherlock shivering, getting his heart race, getting him numb and… well, hard.

Moriarty senses immediately his surrender and pulls him with both hands into the bathtub so that Sherlock flips over the edge and falls on top of Moriarty’s with a thunderous splash. In an instant he finds himself wrapped in Moriarty’s limbs, one hand opening his trousers, the other grabbing his arse.

Moriarty’s body is slick and slippery. Sherlock’s is completely damp, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin, his erection is hitting against his trousers, needing to be released. And Moriarty knows it. He grabs and rubs him making Sherlock produce muffled moans of sinful pleasure.

He looks at Sherlock, his eyes victorious, absorbed, fascinated, almost not believing his own luck.

“Oh, Sherlock”. He goes harder and returns to Sherlock’s neck kissing and teasing it, leaving a pleasantly painful bite on his left collarbone. Sherlock gasps and moves harder against Moriarty’s palm in a complete abandon. His movements stop abruptly as pain, this time real pain, stings his right buttock making him holler and push back falling on the floor hitting his head against the tiles.

Sherlock wakes up gasping and shivering. He is cold, his damp clothes stick to his body, he’s lying on the floor in his bathroom in a pool of water. He tries to lift himself up and feels a muffled punch of ache in his back of the head. He is recollecting the memories of the previous evening. He was running experiments with… uhm, chemicals and got asleep in the bathtub after as he had been supposed to measure his vital parameters while submerged in water staying fully clothed.

After a short struggle against his own clumsy body he frees himself of his clothes and wraps a towel around his hips. Walking slowly propping himself up against the wall he gets into his room to get some dry clothes. He opens the drawer to get pants and socks and for a minute brushes purposelessly through them trying to decide what to put on. Finally he does and still swaying a little put his pants on and feels a sharp sting of pain in his right buttock. It hurts badly and he palps it only to find a chip of his magnifying glass rotten and stuck up his flesh. He pulls it out cutting his fingers accidentally. He swears and sucks at the cut instinctively. He is ready to push the drawer back inside to close it but something strange catches his eye. He reaches out and fishes out of the sock abyss a narrow strip of black leather with a buckle and a ring on it. Sherlock feels hairs on his forearms stand up and he breaths in deeply trying to bring his oxygen level back to normal. He turns slowly resolved to get rid of it tossing it into the litter bin and sees his reflection in the mirror: a tall, slender man in his underwear holding a sex collar, a smear of blood on his lips, a bite mark on his collar bone.

In his mind palace Moriarty closes his eyes and opens his legs.

“Closer”, he whispers, “come closer…”

 

 

 


End file.
